The image of the succubus on the surface of the grimstone viewing machine bowed, bat-like wings sweeping out respectfully.

"The Bonded are no more, great Rift Lord. They are dead."

Navaros gestured and the picture vanished. He looked at his body's reflection in the screen for a minute and remembered the powerful dreams that had come to him scarce minutes ago, and the feelings of omnipotence that had come with them.

"Two Bonded, at least," he murmured. He looked down at his right hand and closed it slowly, remembering the grip of a sword's hilt under his fingers... the glitter of the Rift Crystal above his fist.

"The only pair that mattered. The others, alive or not, are nothing without Runeblade."

Navaros looked at the Death Mage hovering silently on his right. "Send word to the generals. We go to Mount Tibor."

"You are certain, Lord?"

"She is dead, Sahskan. I am counting on my loyal servants to defend me while I cast the spell. Let us hope you do better than last time."

The mage bowed. "Yes, Lord."

Navaros sat back in his throne as the creature departed. Under his breath he quoted one of the Dark Union's prophecies: "San terr shivarass kel en arokh she barran. San vec sa, rynn."

And by darkness shall the righteous fire be quenched. And with it, hope.